


When Machines Cry

by CharbroilLaFlamme



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Family Feels, Gen, Mann vs. Machine, Men Crying, Mentions of Blood, Not Shippy, Open to Interpretation, Possible Character Death, Robots, Work In Progress?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2018-03-28
Packaged: 2019-04-13 22:48:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14122509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharbroilLaFlamme/pseuds/CharbroilLaFlamme
Summary: It is hazy. And quiet. The world in suspended animation.





	When Machines Cry

**Author's Note:**

> I made an angst.
> 
> Also I'm thinking of adding more to this story! I had a pretty cool idea for it and I might just act on it!

The very silence was threatening, if not empty of the frigidity of the bullets chopping into skin and bone. But the smells lingered in the still air. A mingling of gunpowder, ozone, the sour acridity of _something_ burning. Possibly multiple somethings at once to create the minestrone of scents stewing in the tinny air.

It was quiet. Nothing moved. Breathed or otherwise.

He was alone to himself, Mikhail, only knelt over something barely recognisable as a teammate anymore. Something not alive anymore.

Something like tears shivered over his cheekbones while the silence burned into him a message. Regret. Pain.

_... Pain?_

  
_Right, he was bleeding, himself._  
He looked down to his hand that was over a nasty-looking gash, covering it up carefully with the most gentle touch he could muster. His shirt was ripped along the bottom edge, but perhaps still salvageable as a tourniquet for the _other_ wound on his leg that was giving him grief.

He was losing a lot of blood, it seemed.  
Explained why he was so dizzy. Luckily he was cognisant, surprisingly enough.  
But among the smoky haze, he wasn’t too world-wary, as the blue fog and ash wriggled its way into his eyes.  
He furiously wiped at his irritated face with a growl, getting up with a deep grunt and trekking the gravel and dirt and scrap metal to return home.  
_Home._

As he walked, Mikhail felt more bitter, hot tears travel down his face. _Why was he crying so much?_  
Why was he so... _hurt?_  
Was it because of the circumstances?  
The situation he had been placed into?

  
Come to think of it, this was the first time in a _long time_ he’d ever cried...

The last time he had ever really cried was running away with his family.

Escaping from bad men who wanted to take him and his baby sisters away from their _mama_. And hurt _mama_ , too.

He was holding his sisters close, and he was humming between breaths a quiet Russian tune while his sisters—tiny like mice back then—were curled up against him, guarded from the cold.  
He had made a conscious effort not to drip tears on their sleepy faces. He promised he would never let anyone come in between him and them ever again. He swore it. 

In realising this, he felt so _strange_ , like he wasn’t made to cry, he had been trained not to cry. Not to be weak. Only vengeful and angry. Even hungry. A survivor.  
As much as he denied the notion, he was a _machine_. No better than the _real_ machines.   
But he knew he was _different_ , he and the other eight were _different_.

After some time, he had arrived to the big grey door, scraped, scorched, gouged, and dented to hell and back by years of stalemated battle. It shuffled open with a creak, and he came into a room bathed in soft light. His friends were all there; glowing with some ethereal essence. His team. Surrogate family. _Comrades_.

He smiled as he felt warmth. Overwhelming happiness. A _spark_.

_It’s nice to see you again, Mikhail._

_Welcome home..._


End file.
